|Never the bride|
In the middle of dictating Sofi's weekly spelling list, I break into a tumultuous fit of sneezing-- and not the first this session. She peers curiously at me over her tiny pair of glasses and asks, "Why are you sneezing so much? Are you sick?"
"No, I'm not sick, kiddo," I answer, "I think I'm just allergic to the flowers." I point the the flowers blooming beyond the screen door.
"What's 'allergic'?" she persists, dropping her pencil and weaving her fingers before her, expectantly.
I smile at her knowingly. I'm sure she understands. I'm also sure she is trying to get out of doing dictation. "It just means the flowers make me sneeze, now let's please get back to work," I say.
She makes a scene of shrugging and shaking her head, as if to say "It's your loss," as if I'd been the one to choose to be allergic to flowers. She picks up her pencil, but before I could tell her the next word, she quips, "You can't get married, you know."
I'm already sure of the statement, but it perplexes me coming from this seven year old, who probably couldn't spell "marriage." "Why can't I get married?"
"Because they throw flowers at weddings and you have to walk on them. You're gonna sneeze, and you're not allowed to sneeze at weddings."
And I always thought I couldn't get married because of my intimacy issues.